


End Hot Professors

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6852622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke worries that she's too obvious about her feelings for Bellamy. He's mostly just worried about giving his first lecture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End Hot Professors

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't had a ton of time/energy/inclination to write recently. Dealing with family stuff and kind of taking a mental health break. Hopefully I'll have more up soon but if not that's probably why.
> 
> Also this came from [this](http://funniest.1000notes.com/post/144338646749/liamnotpayne-i-stopped-taking-notes-a-long-time)

 

“Okay,” Clarke whispers, poking Bellamy in the side. It’s an easy target, seeing as they’re snuggling on Raven’s uncomfortable couch. She doesn’t ever intend to cuddle with Bellamy on movie nights, but they have too many friends and not enough seats, so that’s usually where she ends up anyway. It’s a good problem to have.

He jumps a little and catches her hand, looking down at her in confusion. It’s the first time his eyes have actually focused on anything in about forty five minutes.

“Okay what?” He says, lower than usual with the effort of keeping his voice down.

“Okay, tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

“Please,” Clarke scoffs. He’s still holding her pointer finger, so she hooks it around his. It’s not holding hands, not really, which is why she thinks she can get away with it. “You haven’t made a single comment. I usually have more trouble getting you to shut up during movies, so clearly you’re distracted.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

Bellamy sighs and squeezes her finger with his.

“Professor Kane asked me to cover his class while he’s at a conference this week. I have my first lecture tomorrow. I’ve just been going over it in my head.”

“You nervous?”

“Not really,” he smirks. “It’s just a bunch of first years. I don’t really care what they think.”

Clarke studies his profile, illuminated by the flickering light of the screen. He’s comfortable in front of large groups of people; they’ve had a couple of classes together and he’s never had any trouble with presentations. She’s certain he knows the material back to front. But–

“You’re nervous,” she accuses, moving to poke him again. He catches her whole hand this time, his fingers looped around her wrist firmly.

“Maybe a little. I don’t want to screw it up."

“You want to practice on me?”

Drunk Bellamy likes to rant a lot, so Clarke is probably the most prepared person in the world to listen and give him feedback. Granted, his rants are usually stream of consciousness ramblings that revolve around whatever current event he’s decided is humanity repeating the mistakes of the past, and don’t people ever learn anything, and history courses should be compulsory for this reason. She’s assuming his lecture will be more organized, better punctuated, and delivered with less exasperation. If not, she'll give expert feedback.

“I’d rather take my mind off it,” he says, his thumb stroking the soft skin at her wrist absently. “If only it had been _anyone else’s_ turn to choose the movie.”

“We all knew Murphy’s turn would come around eventually.”

“At this point, I’m pretty sure his Nicolas Cage obsession is something he’s stubbornly clinging to because he likes to see us suffer.”

Clarke laughs and readjusts so that one of her legs is thrown over his and her arms are wrapped around his midsection. It’s more than their normal physicality, and as she often has lately, she feels a split second of panic that she’s being too unsubtle.

He freezes briefly, but ultimately accepts the cuddling, resting his cheek on the crown of her head and his hand finding her side, keeping her close.

“Keep trash-talking Nicolas Cage. Or Murphy, if you’d rather diss someone who’s here to defend himself. If you stop talking and start thinking about your lecture again, I’m going to tickle you and you’re going to be sorry.”

There’s a moment when all Clarke can hear is the movie. She can’t see his face anymore, but she can tell he’s smiling. She just knows it.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. His chest vibrates beneath her cheek when he speaks and she can’t hold back a smile of her own. “In trying to decide what I loathe the most, I’m torn between his hairline and his voice…”

 

* * *

 

Just like Clarke doesn’t set out to cuddle with Bellamy (though she doesn’t put up much of a fight), she never intended to memorize his schedule either. It’s a product of seeing him often, hearing him complain about his schedule a lot, and noticing him more than another friend might.

Regardless, it’s not a problem for her to figure out when and where his lecture is going to be.

She shows up early to snag the center spot in the front row. When he arrives, she almost misses it because she's so intently focused on her game of Candy Crush.

“What are you doing here?”

She looks up and smiles at his bewildered expression.

“Wanted to watch you crash and burn,” she jokes, regretting it when he immediately frowns.

“Thanks, that’s just what I needed to hear.”

“I’m just kidding, Bell,” she says gently, rising but leaving her things to mark her seat. “I’m here for moral support. If you get too nervous, just talk to me. It’ll feel more normal, probably.”

“So now I’m not only worrying about student evals and what the other TAs will tell Professor Kane about my performance, but–”

“Please,” she scoffs, propping her elbows on the podium between them. “I’ve seen you and Miller and Lincoln do karaoke to most of _Backstreet’s Back_. I’ve seen all the awkward preteen photos Octavia has of you. I’ve watched you and Lexa play the _same game_ _of Twister_ for _three hours_ because you were both too stubborn to give in. There’s really very little at this point that could change my opinion of you.”

She’s expecting this to get a laugh, or at the very least a smirk, but his face falls inexplicably.

“You know, you’re not so good at this pep talk thing.”

“I can leave if you want,” she says, unsure for the first time that she’s doing right by him. “But I’m a thousand percent certain you could give this lecture in your sleep and still kill it. I just wanted to witness you in your element. And be a friendly face in the audience, if I can.”

Finally, he cracks a small smile.

“That was better,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the wood. “That’s not how percentages work, but it’s still an improvement. Now please find your seat, Miss Griffin. Class is about to start.”

And of course, he’s every bit as great as she expects. Clarke can tell he’s nervous because she knows him, knows the normal timbre of his voice and sees the white-knuckle grip he has on the edge of the desk he’s leaning against, but if she knew him less well she’d think he was perfectly at ease. He takes command of the classroom naturally, knowledgeable and authoritative without being boring or condescending.

The best thing is his passion. It pours out of him with every word, filling the room and making even Clarke– who likes history but has never felt strongly about it– care about what he’s saying. Bellamy’s eyes don’t find hers until he’s finished the period and has dismissed his class. She finds that she’s already beaming with pride, assuring him silently that she’ll wait for him to finish answering student questions so they can walk out together.

And it’s just as well she gets a moment to collect herself, because– Well, it’s hard enough for her to keep her feelings for Bellamy Blake in check when their friends are embarrassing him or when he’s grumbling about how kids need to get off his lawn, but seeing him in what feels like his natural habitat, doing what Clarke privately thinks he was born to do, just reminds Clarke of all the reasons she fell for him in the first place.

It also doesn’t help that she had an excuse to stare at him for an hour, lowkey ogling him in the blue button-up Raven had gotten him for his grad school interviews, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, glasses on so he could see his notes without holding them up to his face like Clarke knows he does when he’s reading in his apartment. Every look is a good look on him, but Clarke might like this one best of all.

She’s mostly resumed coherent thought by the time the last of his students is out the door. He ambles up, hands in his pockets and messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and he almost looks nervous again.

“So? How’d I do?”

“Is it over already? I must have zoned out.”

“Jerk,” he mutters fondly, his arm coming around her like a reflex when she tucks herself into his side as they walk.

“Seriously, Bell, you were fantastic. I want to come back Wednesday just to find out what happens next.”

“Yeah?” He asks, pleased.

“Definitely.”

“Okay, but you’re a nerd. And my friend. The real question is whether you think my students were engaged.”

“The furious typing didn’t give it away?”

“You forget I usually sit in the back of this class and watch half of them hang out on Facebook.”

“If they weren’t taking notes, they were probably telling all their friends to sign up for your class.”

“That sounds real.”

Clarke pulls away from him so she can fake-type on the air as they walk.

“OMG, everyone I know should take this class,” she says in a high-pitched voice that already has him grinning. “This TA is hot _and_ knows about the Byzantine Empire? Hashtag swoon, hashtag best class ever, hashtag learning _is_ fun. Heart-eye emoji, heart-eye emoji.”

His smile fades a little.

“Sucks to be them,” he says, injecting his tone with false lightness. “I don’t date anyone who was born after 1999.”

“Only 90s kids will get this,” says Clarke, aiming for a laugh and not quite making it. She’s not sure why it got weird, but she doesn’t like feeling this off-balance.

“Or 80s,” he amends, the smile falling further. “Or something like that. Anyway, I gotta– I have a meeting with my advisor in a few minutes and I need to prep.” He starts walking back in the direction they came. “See you… I don’t know when I’ll see you.”

“Making a Murderer,” she reminds him. “Tomorrow night at Jasper’s.”

“Yeah, of course. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye,” she says lamely, but he’s already too far away to hear.

 

* * *

 

The show has already begun by the time he wedges himself onto the couch next to Wells. Unlike movie night, this tradition is both more rigid and more flexible. Clarke never knows who will show up on any given week, but everyone knows it starts at seven. No exceptions. No restarts.

She and Bellamy are the only ones besides Jasper who show every week without fail. She doesn’t want to chalk his tardiness– near absence, even– up to whatever happened after his class, but then he sits as far from her as he can get. It stings.

Wells gives her a significant look when he scoots over to make room for Bellamy, a checking-in kind of look. Clarke just sighs and wraps herself further around Octavia. She doesn’t have a lot of physical boundaries with any of her friends, but O’s bony clavicle and toned muscle isn’t the same as Bellamy’s broadness. And Clarke isn’t in love with Octavia, so there’s that factor too.

Clarke feels her eyes straying to Bellamy’s figure every minute or so. The first time she catches him looking back, he diverts his gaze so quickly she doesn’t have time to do anything about it. The second time, she keeps contact as she untangles herself from his sister and moves toward the kitchen.

To her great relief, he follows.

“I almost thought you weren’t coming,” she says, leaning back against the counter. He mimics her pose across the room and it feels like a chasm has opened between them.

“I almost didn’t,” he admits. “I don’t– You and I typically end up almost on top of each other, and I wasn’t sure I could handle that tonight.”

Clarke swallows. She’d known that she’d been obvious. How she feels about Bellamy is possibly the worst-kept secret among their friends. She somehow hadn’t thought Bellamy himself had noticed, and if he had, she hadn’t thought it would affect their friendship. Apparently she’d been wrong.

“I’m picturing you waiting in your car for twenty minutes with one eye on your watch,” she says, trying to make it sound like teasing. He gives her a wry smile. The equivalent of a gold star for effort.

“Not exactly. It just took me that long to come to the conclusion that I needed to clear the air. It’s been a long time coming and I can’t avoid you forever.” He looks down at the worn tile. “I wouldn’t want to.”

“I don’t want that either,” she says softly.

He’s got that same white-knuckle grip on the counter as he had in the classroom. Clarke wonders when she started making him so nervous.

“You said yesterday–” He looks up at her, and his eyes are so full of emotion it makes her breath catch. “You said there’s nothing anymore that could change your opinion of me. Is that true?”

Clarke feels her brow furrow. She was so sure he was finally telling her to move on, that she had no hope. Now she’s just confused.

“Yeah,” she says, dragging the word out. He nods, resigned but unsurprised.

“Your opinion matters to me a lot, Clarke. You understand me better than almost anyone. Maybe even better than O, sometimes. I know you see me as a friend. You’ve told me plenty that you see me as a crotchety old man.” He smiles faintly. “But I want to be more than that to you. You’re more than that to me. And if that doesn’t change anything between us, you’re still my best–”

Whatever he was going to say next, however he was going to finish that sentence, is lost as soon as Clarke pushes herself off the counter and steps toward him. His words– for once– fail him. His body seems to be on autopilot, his hands finding her waist almost mechanically as she loops her arms around his neck, twists her fingers in his curls.

It isn’t rushed, it isn’t drawn out tantalizingly. It’s as natural and climatic as a wave building, only to crash against the shore. Romance meets friendship, partnership meets possession. He crushes her against his chest until she’s not sure where she ends and he begins. Clarke never planned this moment, but it exceeds her imagination.

“I guess something could change your mind,” he murmurs, smiling into the kiss.

“Nothing changed,” she laughs as he nips at her bottom lip. “I was crazy about you before and I’m crazy about you still. You’re good with words, but you’re not _that_ good.”

It’s Bellamy’s turn to laugh, his nose brushing her as he shakes with it.

“I can live with that.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you going to audit every lecture I give?” Bellamy asks Wednesday, setting his things on the desk as Clarke saunters up to it from her seat in the front row.

“I heard the teacher is really good,” she shrugs, smirking when he grins. He hasn’t been able to keep a straight face since she kissed him. It’s hilarious and adorable, even more so when it made him impervious to Miller's teasing, thoroughly freaking him out.

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“One success and you’re getting a big head.”

“Yeah, well I’ve had a good week.” Her smirk softens into a real smile.

“The best week. Now quit flirting, Blake. I’m here to learn.”

He gives her one last goofy look before trying to get his facial expressions under control.

“Yes ma’am.”


End file.
